


Just One More Time

by beetle



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M, Post-Inception
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-01
Updated: 2013-05-01
Packaged: 2017-12-10 02:27:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/780714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beetle/pseuds/beetle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for this inception_kink prompt, "Cobb has no refractory period."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just One More Time

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Look not to me for answers.  
> Notes: Set post-Inception. AU, in that Nash didn’t betray Cobb and Arthur. Warnings for slight dub-con.

“Fuck's  _sake_ , Dom! My ass is fucking  _sore_ ,” Nash moans into the pillow as Dom pushes into him _yet again_.  
  
It’s the third time this night— _this hour_ , Nash realizes when he glances at the clock. Dom’s already gripping at his hips, trying to urge him up onto his knees again. Or at least up for long enough to slip a pillow under his hips.  
  
(They’ve done this dance enough times for Nash to know just how Dom’s one-track mind works.)  
  
“C’mon,” Dom murmurs, leaning down to nuzzle the back of Nash’s neck—the only time Nash’ll let him get away with any kind of sentimental bullshit like that is when he’s too tired and sexed-out to fend Dom off—and kiss his shoulders. He’s already pulling out . . . and sliding back in, slow as molasses, teasing and tempting. “Just one more time, baby. I promise.”  
  
“You  _always_  promise  _one more time_ , you fucking nympho!”  
  
Dom chuckles and licks Nash’s ear lobe. “The correct term’d be  _satyr_ , not  _nympho_.”  
  
“The fuck do I care?” Nash gasps as Dom’s cock presses insistently against his prostate. “Jesus Christ, you’re like the world’s most literate date rapist!”  
  
Dom’s full weight settles on Nash’s back pointedly. “It’s not rape if you’re asking for it.”  
  
Nash feels a frisson of something that’s not quite fear. “I d-don’t remember saying peep about wanting a third ass-reaming from you.”  
  
“Not in so many words, but when you lay here, looking so thoroughly well-fucked and wrung out—“ Dom’s voice shakes a little and his rhythm falters just a bit. Then he grunts and gets back with the program. “Do you know what it does to me to see my come running out of your ass?”  
  
“Y-yeah. I have some idea.” Now Nash is the one shaking. Dirty talk—Dom’s version of it, anyway—always does him in. He’s humping the mattress, even though his cock is painfully over-sensitized and probably starting to chafe at this point. Not that Dom knows or would care if he did. . . .  
  
“Do you know what it does to me, knowing that you’ll take it and take it, no matter how many times I get hard?”  
  
“ _Yessss_ ,” Nash hisses as Dom starts thrusting harder and faster, his hands tightening hard enough to bruise—wouldn’t be the first time—Nash’s pale hips.  
  
Dom chuckles again. “Then quit being such a drama queen and get on your knees for me.” His tugs on Nash’s hips are timed to every thrust, pulling up every time he thrusts in. “C’mon, baby, on your knees for Dom.”  
  
It’s not fair, really. Nash likes ‘em big, and Dom  _is big_. But he’s also got a hell of a lot more in the way of technique than guys with big dicks usually do. He wields his dick like it’s Excaliber, and no matter how resistant Nash tells himself he is to that, in the end he always caves.  
  
He always gets on his knees.  
  
Groaning, he braces his rubbery arms on the bed and tries to push himself up—Dom helpfully pulls out and gets an arm around his waist. “Up we go, Nash,” he murmurs, hauling Nash up like he weighs nothing. “Get your knees under you, and I’ll do the rest.”  
  
“You fucking well better. Douche,” Nash grits out, forcing equally rubbery legs to obey him. Rather, to obey  _Dom_.  
  
As soon as his knees seem ready to bear at least some of his weight, Dom’s humping him, his cock lube-tacky and brand-hot, the arm around Nash’s waist squeezing so hard, he can barely draw an adequate breath.  
  
“Jesus, you can hump me when I fall asleep, Dom! For now, just  _fuck me_ , already! I’m tired, and I have a flight to catch in the morning!”  
  
“God, I love it when you talk dirty.” Dom laughs breathlessly then he’s lining himself up and driving himself home again in one smooth, practiced motion. Nash caterwauls embarrassingly—forget the occupants of the next room the  _whole hotel_  probably hears him—as Dom continues to make mince-meat of his prostate. Every tired muscle flutters and clenches reflexively around Dom, who’s moaning something about how tight and hungry Nash always is no matter how many times they fuck.  
  
For awhile—for  _ever_ —it is what it is: Dom fucking Nash fast and hard, or sometimes slow and hard—or even slow and gently on the rare occasion he needs to catch his breath. Nash, for his part . . . takes it all, slow, fast, gentle, or hard. Takes it and  _loves_  it, his cock hugging his abdomen and leaving sticky, wet streaks over drying ones. His balls feel like they’re burning from the inside out. Like he’s literally  _on fire_  with the need to come.  
  
The epic fail of which is that he’s not sure he  _can_  come a third time. He never has before, anyway. Only one person in this . . . relationship . . . can be Dominic Cobb, after all—meaning possessing the stamina of a man his own age and the refractory time of a man half that.  
  
But when Dom does eventually come—to the tune of Nash egging him on with porno-grade dialogue such as  _I need it, big daddy, come for me_ —it’s a near-scalding wash of heat that  _almost_ sends Nash over the edge . . . but not quite.  
  
Frustrated, he wails again, collapsing to the bed and taking Dom with him, given hardly a moment to be thankful for finally,  _finally_  being empty, when Dom’s in him again. There’s almost no resistance, between the all the lube and come and Nash’s weariness. Dom takes advantage of that, pumping his barely flagging erection in and out of Nash and moaning all the while.  
  
“Just one more, baby, please? Just one more. Promise,” he’s babbling as he pushes Nash’s legs wide and positions himself between them. His arms bracket Nash’s and . . .  _damnitall to fucking_ Hell _, but he’s actually going for four!_  
  
“Oh, fuck you, you fucking  _bastard_  . . . you fucking  _douchebag_ , I hate you . . . I sincerely fucking _hate_ —oh, shit, oh,  _Christ_ — _Dommm. . . !_ ”  
  
Suddenly Nash comes for an unprecedented third time—dry as the Sahara, and shouting all the while as his aching cock and empty balls are drawn up to his body uselessly. He shudders and shakes, and tries and tries to shoot a load he doesn’t have.  
  
And  _still_  Dom fucks him, gone beyond coherent pleas to  _yeah_ s, and  _fuck-yeah_ s, and monosyllabic grunts that all end with  _baby_.  
  
At some point, his body too beyond pleasure or pain to be anything but utterly numb, Nash loses consciousness, Dom’s mumbles following him down to the only emptiness left to him.  
  


*

  
  
Nash wakes to a sore, leaden body, and a lazy hand stroking his morning wood and gently squeezing his balls.  
  
Dom kisses the back of his head with a loud  _smack!_  “Think your ass has recovered by now?” He pushes his own morning wood against the small of Nash's back, dragging it a little lower. But he doesn't seem put out when Nash shudders and shifts away slightly.  
  
“Not even a little recovered,” he grumbles, his voice all hoarse and scratchy. He tries to clench muscles that take forever to respond . . . but eventually do. “And it may never recover thanks to you, you slippery shit. I  _know_  you kept fucking me after I passed out.”  
  
“Would I do something like that?” Dom’s voice is as lazy as his hand, which Nash shoves away.  
  
“Would. Have. Will.” Groaning, he opens crusty eyes, and tries to focus them on the blurry red of the clock-radio readout . . . apparently he’s missed his flight. By, like, a  _lot_. And it’s no consolation that Dom’s missed his, as well.  
  
“One of these days, you’re gonna fuck me to death,” he croaks ruefully. Dom laughs, and kisses Nash behind his right ear.  
  
“Don’t exaggerate,” he says fondly, sitting up and climbing over Nash’s body. He gets to his feet: a tall, solidly built man, naked, and not at all self-conscious about it as he paces to the window and opens the curtains, letting in golden sunlight.  
  
Nash winces and squints till his eyes adjust. When they do, Dom is staring out the window and absently scratching his chest. Then his balls.  
  
Rolling his tired eyes, Nash continues to admire the view, but can’t help saying: “Jesus, Dom, you’re such a man.”  
  
Glancing over his shoulder, the afternoon sunlight turning his messy hair into a corona (or a halo, which is a laugh and a half) Dom smirks. “Is that a complaint?”  
  
“Just commentary.” Nash sits up, the duvet sliding off him, and surveys the scratched, bruised, come-streaked wreck that is his body. “Fuck, look at me.”  
  
“I am.”  
  
When Nash frowns and glances up, it’s to see Dom facing him, his endlessly  _ready_  cock formidably erect.  
  
Well beyond morning wood, this is a hard-on that means  _business_.  
  
“Oh, no,” Nash says, holding up his hands in a warding gesture, and making the sign of the cross for added measure. “ _Fuck_  no. No more, Dom—“  
  
“Just  _one_  more, baby? For the road?” Dom’s already striding back toward the bed, climbing back on it—and on Nash, who’s shaking his head. He shoves at Dom’s chest, but to no avail. The man’s an unstoppable force.  
  
Or perhaps an immovable object.  
  
“Look, we both have flights that we fucking  _missed_ , thanks to  _you_ , Marathon Man! Get  _off!_ ”  
  
“Tryin’ to, beautiful,” Dom grunts, leaning in to kiss Nash. But at the last moment, Nash smacks his cheek just hard enough to get his attention. It works, those blue-blue eyes boring into his own like laser beams.  
  
Refusing to be cowed, Nash draws himself up and glares. “I meant get off  _me_ , jerk! I said  _no_ , and I meant it!”  
  
“And I said  _yes_.”  
  
“ _No_.” But Nash sighs when Dom nods  _yes_ , pushing at Dom’s chest again, for-real annoyed, this time. “Damnit, Dominic—“  
  
Dom tackles Nash to the bed, pinning Nash’s body with his own, and Nash’s hands with his own. All without breaking gazes.  
  
“ _Yes_ ,” he says lowly, leaning in to lick a stripe up Nash’s throat. And no one is less surprised than Nash when his own body betrays him by starting to get noticeably harder. Which Dom doesn’t fail to notice, chuckling smugly, kissing Nash’s neck and letting go of his hands.  
  
Despite himself, Nash’s arms wrap around Dom’s neck, holding on tight, his hands curling into Dom’s hair. He struggles his legs out from under Dom’s so they can do the same. But he’s barely done that before Dom’s hooked his arms under Nash’s knees and shifted so that he’s more fully on top of him.  
  
He looks into Nash’s eyes again, still smiling. He always has a sexy smile for Nash, if not a particularly kind one.  
  
“Yes,” he repeats softly, then: “I don’t think you need to be stretched, after last night.”  
  
“Are you asking me or telling me?” Nash ironically wonders aloud. His only reply is Dom taking him with one quick thrust.  
  
This time, they both hiss, and Nash’s head sinks into the pillow, his eyes fluttering shut as his body is reawakened to desire and pleasure . . . and pain. He cries out, tears running down either side of his face as he bites his lip to silence himself. Dom kisses his face almost tenderly.  
  
“You're so good . . . so good . . . just one more time, baby,” he whispers as he starts moving inside Nash, who helplessly arches up to meet Dom’s body even as his own protests and quivers on the verge of collapse. “I promise. Just once.”  
  
“You— _fuck_!” he gasps as Dom braces them both, hitches Nash’s legs a little higher, and slides a little deeper, still whispering familiar lies and fond filth. “You always say that, Dom. . . .”


End file.
